Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9)

by Michael Christopher Carter

  “Let us know if you need us again, won’t you?” she invites, and I nod as they step outside.

  Leaning my back onto the door, it closes with a decisive clunk; a punctuation to the end of my non-accountability. “She’s punishing me,” I say to the echoing hallway. Dialling her number, this time when it goes to voicemail, I leave a message.

  “Sorry. For being a drunken idiot for weeks; and for not paying you enough attention; and for...” I want to tell her there’s no need for whatever she’s worried about with Uma, but I can’t. I have to see her face when I lie to it. I opt for, “...everything.”

  I’m hopeful that wherever she is, she’ll hear it and begin to forgive me. Chewing a frayed fingernail, I shake my hand to stop myself, and to deny the power of its hint at my subconscious unease.

  I won’t go to bed. When my girls come home, I need them to know I care, and that I’m sober. To stave off fatigue, I make a pot of excessively strong coffee in the Italian espresso pot that was amongst the many gifts my beautiful wife bestowed upon me last Christmas. Its effects can only keep me awake for so long, until I eventually succumb and drop off.

  The stiffness, only a night uncovered on the couch can evoke, finally rouses me from a restless sleep. Gasping for breath, I’m sure I’ve had the same dream again, waking with a desperate sense of loss.

  “Imogen?” I yelp through grief stricken lips, but there’s no answer. “Imogen? Jess?” I yell at the top of my voice, my cry echoing back from the silence.

  I rush to the window. Her car’s still missing. What’s the time? Seeing it’s nearly nine, I resist calling the friendly police officers from last night and decide to wait; and hope she goes to the surgery.

  I phone early to a recorded message that the practice is closed and please call a different number in case of emergency. The minutes I’m forced to wait are unbearable. Noticing my finger in my mouth again, I slap my cheek as a reminder not to bite my nails.

  “Ah, Hello. Good morning. Is Imogen, I mean Doctor Armstrong there, please?” I blurt as soon as the call is answered.” A sigh from the other end deflates me before they’ve even spoken a word.

  “Hold on, I’ll see if she’s in yet.”

  Green sleeves wears down my concentration so when the voice I most want to hear (albeit with a dour tone) reverberates the earpiece, I’m ill-prepared and stutter.

  “H... Hi, baby. Are you okay?”

  “I got your message. You’re sorry.”

  “So, so sorry.”

  “Good. Me too. Sorry if you were worried about me, that is.” Grateful for the almost-friendliness, my confidence swells.

  “Worried? I was frantic. That nightmare I’ve been having, I was certain it had come true. The police calmed me down.”

  “Police?!” I hear a chuckle. Delighted I’d phoned them, her next remark thrills me. “Take me to lunch. And it better be somewhere nice.”

  “Of course. What time?”

  “Lunch time. One.” Sensing she’ll hang up without saying goodbye, I shriek, “And Jess?” There’s the evil chuckle again.

  “She stayed at a friend’s.” The line is dead, but my mood is alive and well. I need to think of some compelling excuses for the Uma situation, but the most crucial thing to remember is she’s in the past. Definitely in the past.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lunch is awkward. I smile between mouthfuls and Imogen reciprocates. There’s no time for pudding, and she probably would decline anyway. I notice for the first time that she’s lost weight, and she had none to lose. She looks gaunt.

  I reach my hand across the table to hold hers. She either doesn’t notice, or she’s blanking me. I pull it back and wipe the clamminess surreptitiously on my trouser leg.

  “Look, babe. I really am sorry. I don’t know what has come over me lately. You’re so wonderful, kind and beautiful, not to mention successful. I just feel a bit of a failure.”

  “Because of the job?” her high pitch matches her eyebrows. It’s a relief to hear the incredulity in her tone. I nod.

  “Yeah. Twenty years I’ve given that school.”

  “But you’re calling is teaching, not admin. You’re a brilliant History teacher, Eliot. You wouldn’t have been happy as Deputy Head.”

  Bless her. She still sees teaching as my vocation. It is, sometimes. Rarely. I smile and sip scolding coffee, all the more scorching for reaching my lips under cover of a thick layer of cold, floating cream. I grimace and my eyes water.

  There was a time such an occurrence might provoke sympathy, or at least berated advice from my doctor wife. Today, she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Promise me there’s nothing going on with this Uma woman.” My mind un-cramps from its stifling cautiousness. She couldn’t have made it easier for me. Not ‘Promise me nothing has happened,’ but ‘is happening.’ I grin, happy I can tell the truth.

  “Nothing is happening with Uma.” I shake my head and allow the coffee’s bitterness to register on my face. Might as well find out what she knows. “Why would you even think that?”

  Imogen turns her saucer round a few times before she answers. “When I came to meet you for lunch...” I pray my sudden gulp isn’t noticed. Forcing my smile, I await with bated breath, bitter coffee poised midway between lips and table.

  “...When I asked where I could find you, and she told me in Uma Taylor’s room... I don’t know. The woman on reception seemed to find my presence amusing; farcical almost.”

  Knowing exactly what I’m dealing with, I proceed full throttle. “That’s Alix. I think she’s got a bit of a thing for me. As for Uma, I usually try to avoid her,” I say truthfully.

  “She seems nice.”

  “Oh? You met her?” I sneer.

  She nods. “I’m surprised she didn’t mention it.”

  My coffee finally reaches my mouth, and I swallow a dismissive gulp before answering with a shrug. “Like I say, I try to avoid her. Small doses is the key with Uma Taylor,” I declare, a little too flippantly.

  Imogen’s saucer is still rotating. The noise of the ceramic against the wood of the table grates on me. Her eyes, shielded by hooded lids, don’t look up. What’s she not telling me? Did she see me, and now she knows I’m lying?

  Deciding to be brave, I ask her what’s wrong. When she eventually meets my gaze, I’m unconvinced. “Nothing,” she hisses.

  “Sorry I missed you for lunch. That would have really cheered me up. I was having a hectic day preparing GCSE revision sessions for some of my struggling students.” I can hardly believe my own front, but Imogen doesn’t react and my mouth dries, unable to elaborate my lie.

  We drive back to the surgery in almost silence. My wave’s goodbye aren’t reciprocated, and I go home decidedly dejected.

  I’m searching through the fridge, wondering if I should make a start on dinner when the phone rings.

  “Hi, El. Listen. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but... I’m gonna stay away for a few nights. Need to get my head straight, you know?”

  I don’t know. Why is she being like this? Should I play it cool? Pretend I’m not bothered? Should I beg? In the end, I’ve said nothing when she puts the phone down.

  I fight my instinct to call straight back. If she needs space, then I should give it to her. But what about Jess? Rather than embarrassing myself phoning Imogen, I ring our daughter and am relieved when she answers promptly.

  “Hi, Dad. Okay?” She sounds normal at least.

  “You home tonight, hun?”

  “No. Didn’t Mum tell you? I’m staying at Amy’s. We’re cramming for our exams on Friday.” I hear Amy giggle in the background.

  “That’s right, Jess’s dad,” her voice, tinny with the distance, echoes from the earpiece.

  “Okay then. When are you home?”

  “Well, after the stress of the exams, we’ll need to go out on Friday night.”

  “So, basically, you’ve left home,” I tease.

  “Daad! I’ll be home at the weekend... Some
time,” she chuckles.

  Sharing a lighter moment with Jess elevates my mood. Reluctant to upset things, I know I’ll never relax unless I warn her.

  “Listen, Jess. Before I go, humour me about something, will you?”

  “Okaaay,” she agrees apprehensively.

  “I’m going to tell your mum as well, but please don’t get in her car.”

  “What! Why?” Shaking my head, I’m sure she’ll think I’m crazy.

  “I’ve been having these terrible nightmares where the pair of you have a horrific accident in Mum’s Mini.” From the sigh coming down the line, I can tell she won’t buy the whole precognition thing, so I plump for, “You said you’d humour me. You don’t want your ol’ dad to worry, do you?”

  “No. I suppose. But if you’re worried, it’s Mum you need to tell. She never wears her seatbelt! And she’s a doctor. I do tell her every morning, but she just shrugs and says she doesn’t like them.”

  My face burns and I gulp for air. Even without the nightmares, this isn’t good. And I hadn’t noticed. Isn’t there some sort of alarm that sounds when your belts off, I wonder? There is in the Mercedes.

  “And you should get the airbag fixed,” Jess interrupts my thoughts.

  “Airbag?”

  “Yeah, don’t you remember? When you were looking after Auntie Susie’s little sprog.” (Jess hates babies.) “You had to turn it off.”

  Shit. She’s right. The jagged hole of shattered glass in the passenger side of the windshield flashes before me. That’s it, isn’t it? Subconsciously, I’ve remembered these facts and recognised the danger. I can fix that. Everything will be okay.

  “Is that it?” she asks.

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “Okay. Love you,” she says, ending the call.

  Relieved that at least one of them is listening to me, and that I reckon I can eliminate the danger. I phone Imogen, apprehensive to interrupt her time away, but decide it’s worth it.

  After being put through to messaging, I ring a couple more times before having no choice but to leave a message.

  “Imogen... It’s me. Put your bloody seatbelt on!” I force a chuckle to lighten the tone. “Seriously, babe. I told you about my nightmare,” (when you were asking me about Uma, my heart sinks at the memory) “and Jess informs me you don’t wear a seatbelt. So, if you could humour me and stop me worrying? Please.” I leave a silent pause, struggling to find anything to say. “Okay, then. See you at the weekend. Love you.”

  That’s the best I can do for now, but when she does come back, I must get the airbag fixed. I think we had to get the garage to do it before, but I’ll get it done, and soon.

  I give up rummaging through the fridge. After resisting the lure of some chilled craft beers, I can’t resist the temptation of a takeaway; especially as no-one’s here to steal my Lamb Bhuna.

  Over-doing it, I’m forced to package up onion bhajis and samosas (and resist again the comfort of a cold beer).

  Slumping onto the couch, I push down misgivings that my marriage is in trouble, and enjoy the full benefits of the Sky remote control. After much scrutiny, I elect to fall asleep in front of a perplexing, and doubtless intriguing, British gangster thriller.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  A face at the window makes me gasp and jump back; as far as the driver’s seat will allow. Putrid breath condensing on the glass doesn’t fade when I rub it because it’s on the outside.

  Tap, tap, tap. Bone white fingers drum on the pane. I have no choice but to gawp, frozen to the spot, as they scrape like nails on a blackboard down the glass.

  The hooded figure, face obscured, leans closer, bony hands waft to the head. Grasping either side of the cloak, they begin to tug. Am I about to witness the face beneath?

  Staring an unblinking stare, I wipe in vain at the misty glass. It does nothing to improve my vision, but the hooded figure jolts at the closeness of my touch. Snatching the hood back in one swift motion, the face is revealed.

  Blood drips from hollow eyes, smearing crimson cheeks, trickling in sickening streaks. The second it takes to recognise my wife through the gore drags for an eternity. “Imogen?”

  Stretching my fingers to touch hers, I recoil from their deathly paleness. Squinting, I stare in disbelief as her features blur into an undecipherable soup before morphing into a new face.

  Pretty eyes stare back at me and I know them at once—Jess! Yanking at the door handle, I have to get to them, to hold them and make it all okay. The handle clicks in my hand, and I fumble to release the lock.

  Not from my efforts, the door suddenly flies open. Scrambling out, I scurry after her. “Jess! Jess! Wait,” I cry.

  Slowly, I gain on her. Outstretched, fingers gain a feather touch as they brush the ragged gown grazing the ground.

  Leaning my body forwards makes me lose balance and I fall hard. Winded, I haul myself up onto my knees. Jess is still only a short distance away and is walking towards me.

  “Jess,” I call again, stretching my arms out for her to help me up.

  It’s not until she’s almost upon me I notice her hood is up again. She pauses before me, just out of reach. “Jess?”

  Bending to her haunches, her face still isn’t visible, but I’m sure now it’s not her. When the figure leans into me, the stench of death and decay is overpowering.

  Stifling my retch as the bony fingers extend towards me, I pull my arms in, unwilling to let this creature touch me.

  “Eliot,” it hisses. “Eliot, daarrliinng!” The cloak falls off, and Uma stands before me, naked and alluring.

  Before I have the chance to put my new resolve to the test, her flesh falls from her frame as swiftly as a butchered carcass. Wincing, unable to tear my gaze from the horror, my eyelids flutter, trying to shield me as blood oozes, her skin separating from muscle, and flesh from bone, leaving only a skeleton; atop which, Uma’s pretty face sits in bizarre discord.

  Still on my knees gawping, from nowhere, the figure is gowned again. With no visible effort, it soars into the night sky, converging with the grey clouds circling my head, and I collapse, falling forward into the blood-soaked mud.

  I gasp, choking for air. Pushing urgently from the couch to raise my chest, my hand slips and I fall with force onto the floor. The shock winds me and I struggle further for breath until my mind realises there’s a problem and fires off neurons in my brain which remember how to breathe. With a croaking wheeze, I inhale my first oxygen of the day.

  The television is off and it’s cold and dark. Exhausted, I want to go up to my nice comfy bed, but I’m afraid. I can’t let the nightmare back into my head. Clicking the TV on again (after it switched off automatically), five o’clock extends little choice, and I’m drawn into an infomercial bestowing the benefits of vigorous exercise. Just watching it is tiring.

  I’m lucky. My wiry frame never puts on excess weight, no matter what I eat; and I grow muscle easily. My body is far more impressive than my infrequent gym attendance would denote. Today, though, I persuade myself a trip to the gym might be a useful distraction. It makes me feel worthy; deserving.

  Any optimism I cultivate with exercise and a grilled fish salad for dinner (not a take-away carton in sight) will be lost as soon as I close my eyes. Hauling my exhausted body up to bed, I labour over undressing, folding neatly and discarding items for washing to their appropriate colour-coordinated baskets: Imogen would be proud. But I’m not doing it for her. Not just for her, anyway.

  Putting off the inevitable moment my consciousness gives in to unconsciousness, I floss my teeth, then exfoliate and moisturise my face with the expensive ‘male grooming’ products Jess bought me for Christmas (which have gone unopened until now.)

  Hopping into bed, alert and partway back to my previous positivity, I flip open my i-pad and keep myself awake working through the dozens of apps.

  But it can’t work forever. Fierce fingers of fatigue claw at my mind and my body. I jolt free of them a number of times before their gri
p becomes too strong, and I’m dragged to the depths of my nightmare once again.

  A smile is etched upon my face, but I’m not feeling it. My frown is deep, creasing my forehead. If I were to glance in the rear-view mirror, I’d be reminded of childhood pictures where a smiling face could be turned upside down to reveal a frowning man—the eyebrows from the right-way-up picture becoming the new mouth.

  I watch with detachment as fidgeting fingers drum the steering wheel. Frequent glances in the mirror reveal no-one is following me, but I sense them—the cloaked clouds, circling, ready to tear at my flesh.

  I’m not drunk, I’m sure, but keeping my full attention on the road is proving impossible.

  Something ahead grabs my attention like a punch to the jugular. I splutter and cough in disbelief.

  “No, no, no!” I wail, but the me dreaming, watching, doesn’t know why.

  Hiisss,“Eliot… Eliot Armstrong!”

  The voice is in the car. Pitching my head round, the cloaked Angel of Death is sitting on the back seat, breath condensing on the cold night air.

  Clutching the head rest of my seat with skeletal fingers, the figure leans into me. Trembling, I have to keep my eyes on the road, but I know it’s close.

  Icy breath tingles in my ear, but I don’t move my head. “You’ll never save them. It’ll be too late and you’ll lose them all…”

  And then I wake up.

  I’m weeping. Why? The same dream every night? I can’t take it. “I’ll get the airbag fixed,” I mouth toward the heavens. Shaking my head, I hope my intentions appease my subconscious and stop my torture.

  ‘Friday at the earliest,’ I hear Alix’s words clear as day. The earliest, it will have to be. I need to get to work; to get back into routine. The nightmares are unbearable, and I’m sure being alone hasn’t helped. Get back to work, get my wife and daughter back under the same roof, and maybe things will look up.

  Plastering on a smile, I head to my car, choosing to ignore the nagging knowledge that I’ve had these nightmares for weeks, and Imogen and Jess being home is unlikely to evoke salvation.